Aegon's fingertips brushed against the rough rock wall. The torchlight flickered within the passage, illuminating scenes on the murals that had remained unchanged for millennia, making them appear as if they had happened only yesterday.
He was like a ghost walking through a corridor of time, silently observing the history of the rise and fall of the family known as Torregar.
What he had seen before was nothing but the family's peerless glory—dragons soaring into the sky from the Fourteen Fire Peaks, and dragon riders leading overwhelming fleets to conquer one land after another.
The sigil of House Torregar—a ferocious dragon clutching a sea monster in its maw—was spread across every corner of the Essos coastline.
The Valyrians on the murals stood tall and proud, their eyes filled with contempt for other races as they wrote an epic of conquest with fire and blood.
However, when Aegon turned a corner and stopped before the next mural, the tone of the imagery took a sharp downturn.
This section of the mural was severely damaged; large areas of peeling and cracks seemed to suggest that history itself was too painful to look back upon.
Aegon could only piece together the outline of a tragedy from the remaining images: House Torregar had just achieved an overwhelming victory over the Rhoynar, with dragons burning rivers and cities.
The joy of victory had not yet dissipated when the scene shifted to a sky covered in dense, dark clouds.
Under the cover of the clouds, a dragon with scales shimmering with a cold, moonlight-like luster appeared quietly. In a posture nearly akin to a sneak attack, it lunged at House Torregar's largest dragon.
Subsequently, more dragons dived down from the clouds, and a tragic and extraordinary dragon battle unfolded in the sky.
Dragonflame intertwined, scales shattered, and dragon riders fell from the heights like rain.
Aegon leaned down, carefully identifying the nearly obliterated inscriptions below the mural. The words carved in High Valyrian were filled with bone-deep hatred:
"Silves... despicable... this debt... repaid a hundredfold..."
Clearly, House Torregar had suffered a backstab from another Dragonlord family within Valyria—most likely the Silves family.
This civil war caused the family's elites to suffer heavy losses.
Perhaps this was why the Valyrian Dragonlords let Nymeria go, allowing her to lead the remaining Rhoynar to flee Essos and cross over to Dorne.
Because the Dragonlords were busy with civil war, they simply had no time to deal with these remaining small fry.
Aegon continued forward; the subsequent murals were even more fragmented.
He saw the sigil representing House Torregar grow dim, the family lands in ruins, and the nests once filled with dragon eggs looted and emptied.
The surviving clansmen were forced to abandon their territories in the heart of Valyria and migrate to the fringes of the Freehold—the very desolate ruins where Aegon stood now.
Once Dragonlords, now fallen to such a state; the murals were permeated with the desolation and resentment of a hero's end.
As the group went deeper, the air became thick and heavy. The smell of sulfur was mixed with a faint, nauseatingly sweet metallic scent, like aged bloodstains.
The style of the following murals changed abruptly, shifting from the solemnity of recording history to a frenzied and eerie atmosphere.
The lines became distorted and hurried, and the colors were dominated by dark red and ink black. The content of the murals began to revolve around a core theme—the resurrection of the progenitor dragon 'Torregar'.
A dragon that shared the same name as their family.
Or perhaps their name originated from this dragon.
This reminded Aegon of the mural titled 'The Seafarer'.
The text also became a chaotic mess, with word orders reversed and filled with paranoid delusions.
"Progenitor... not dead... long sleep... beneath feet..."
"...Key of Life... only a sea of blood... can awaken glory..."
"Sacrifice... blood of thousands... to forge the path of rebirth..."
A massive mural occupied an entire rock wall, depicting a shocking scene: countless people—judging by their attire, there were soldiers and commoners, but notably no slaves—were bound to execution racks. Sharp blades slit their throats, and blood flowed like streams into a vast underground lake.
In the center of the lake, the silhouette of a massive dragon could be vaguely seen drifting in the blood-water.
On the other side, piles of corpses were being thrown into raging flames as offerings to a mysterious power.
Reaching out to wipe the dust off the mural, his finger was inadvertently nicked by a sharp protrusion on the stone wall, and a drop of crimson blood flowed from the wound.
In an instant, an indescribable sense of gloom suddenly seized him.
It wasn't a cold temperature, but a chill originating from the depths of his soul.
The hair all over his body stood on end instantly. The small figures being sacrificed in the mural seemed to come to life, and countless pairs of eyes filled with resentment stared fixedly at him.
From within the mural, from the void, and from deep within the rock beneath his feet, they seemed to solidify, ready to swallow him whole and skin him alive.
The wails and curses of thousands of beings before death seemed to ring in his ears, and the heavy smell of blood nearly suffocated him.
He felt as if his own blood was being frozen by this invisible malice, standing frozen in place, unable to move.
"Boss?" "Brother Hain!"
Henry and Karl noticed Aegon's abnormality almost simultaneously. This silver-haired youth, usually frighteningly calm, was now pale-faced with constricted pupils, his body trembling imperceptibly. The two wanted to rush forward regardless of everything.
"Stand back!" An Ironborn blocked them with a blade, his face bearing the usual ferocity.
"Let them pass."
Euron Greyjoy's voice rang out, not loud, yet carrying an unquestionable tone.
His single eye sized up the frozen Aegon with great interest, then swept over those crazed murals, his blue-purple lips curling into a playful arc.
He waved his hand. Though the Ironborn looked puzzled, they stepped back as ordered.
Henry and Karl immediately rushed to Aegon's side.
Henry clumsily supported Aegon's arm, feeling the tension in his muscles, and whispered urgently, "What's wrong? What did you see?" Karl was more alert; he placed one hand on Aegon's shoulder, trying to transmit some strength, while his other hand was already on the cleaver at his waist, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings, especially the murals and Euron's every move.
Under the touch and calls of his two companions, the tidal wave of malicious hallucinations gradually receded. Aegon took a sharp breath, like a drowning man finally breaking the surface, his back already drenched in cold sweat.
"What is this? What's going on?"
He breathed in the air that carried the scent of decay.
He shook his head, indicating he was fine, but his gaze could no longer leave the murals depicting the blood sacrifice.
Euron slowly paced forward, stopping beside Aegon, and together they stared at the mural of the surging Blood Lake.
"It seems... our 'True Blood' Dragonlord left us more than just an empty tomb." Crow's Eye's voice was greasy, like a venomous snake sliding past one's ear. "Tell me, silver-haired boy, what else do these paintings... tell you? For instance, how to complete this... interesting ritual?"
Aegon took a deep breath, forcing himself to withdraw from that hair-raising resonance.
He met Euron's probing gaze, his eyes returning to a state of calm, though a hidden, imperceptible sharpness lurked in their depths.
Aegon's mind was like an undercurrent beneath an ice sheet—calm on the surface, but rapidly calculating the gains and losses of every step deep within.
"What this mural describes is an extremely ancient and dangerous Valyrian blood sacrifice ritual." Aegon's voice was steady, showing no ripples of emotion.
He pointed his hand at the blood forming a lake on the mural and the dragon silhouette in the center.
"They believed that by sacrificing a massive amount of life—note that the mural shows soldiers and commoners, not slaves—and channeling their life force into a specific 'vessel,' they could awaken or create some powerful existence, such as... their fallen dragon."
He paused, deliberately moving his gaze away from the mural to glance at the pale-faced, fanatical-eyed Corleone nearby, before finally landing back on Euron's face.
"As for the method... the inscriptions are vague, filled with delusions and madness. But one thing is very clear," Aegon's tone grew deliberately heavy, carrying a clear warning, "this ritual is by no means a simple slaughter."
It required a specific location, a specific bloodline as a guide, and might even require a precise grasp of the stars and ley line energies.
One wrong step, and what is summoned might not be power, but total destruction and backlash.
The final downfall of House Torregar might very well be related to this.
Aegon was not lying completely; instead, he skillfully wrapped the truth within a warning.
He hinted at the complexity and danger of the ritual, both demonstrating his own knowledge and planting a seed for potential future conflict—if Euron insisted on trying, he would likely fail, perhaps even triggering catastrophic consequences.
"As for why I know this?" The corner of Aegon's mouth curled into a very faint arc, deliberately tinged with a bit of self-deprecation, which was more persuasive than a direct admission or denial. "Some ancient records always circulate in unexpected places, waiting for someone who can understand them."
"My family... also once dabbled in this forbidden knowledge, at a heavy price."
He skillfully blurred his Targaryen bloodline background, hinting that he came from some similarly ancient but fallen Valyrian branch, which both explained the source of his knowledge and avoided directly exposing his identity.
Crow's Eye's single eye, cloudy as a dead fish's, flashed with a murky light called greed. "It seems this trip will not disappoint me."
"Continue forward."
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